End Result
by avocadomoon
Summary: Giles blinks twice. He suddenly looks very old. "She had support," he says, rather weakly. / "Please," Wesley says. "She lives in a motel."


I.

The courtyard is quiet, almost eerily so. This had been one of its advantages, when he'd first moved in - a little spot of seclusion, a little sanctuary he could retreat to when the noises of the outside world got to be too much. Angel is, in my ways, still unused to living in the world again - especially now, with the screams of Hell still in his ears - and it's always the little things that bother him the most. The perfume modern women wear - acidic, cloying, layered over sour-smelling chemicals. Car engines and their thick, oily smoke. And headphones - that's the worst. Angel doesn't mind modern music so much as he minds the way it sounds when coming from a child's headphones - tinny, refracted and warped by distance and small speakers. It gives him a headache like nothing else.

Now, it's less of an advantage and more of a tactical weakness - too many times, people have sneaked up on him here, catching on that the thick walls and solid pipes that line the southern walls do the job of concealing their movements. Still, with Faith in the living room, and Buffy and Giles holed up by the two main entrances, the courtyard is a necessary escape when things inside get too heated. Angel is painfully aware of the effect his presence has on Giles in particular - but also on Faith, who hasn't given up on using him to taunt Buffy. It's to the point now that every time he walks in the room, the tension skyrockets. It's been almost two days that they've kept her here, and they're not making much progress. Angel is starting to worry about what the situation might turn into - the police are still looking for Faith, and it's not as if Buffy and Giles are going to come off looking great if they find her chained up here - literally.

So Angel stays out here. Sneaks a cigarette or two, drinks his pig's blood, paces back and forth occasionally. He doesn't really feel like he's helping much, but Faith had stopped listening about sixteen hours and a few hundred sentences ago. He's feeling their options slip away one by one.

It also serves the purpose of having eyes on the sewer entrance - anyone or anything coming at them through there would definitely be a demonic threat, and not a human one. So when he hears footsteps - arrogantly loud - echoing through the grate, Angel immediately goes for a weapon. It's only when a voice accompanies it - a very distinct, British voice - that he relaxes.

Well, sort of. "Excuse me? Mr. Giles? Mr. Angel? Hello - is anyone there?"

"Wesley," Angel mutters, dropping his axe with a 'clank.' He pulls the subway grate off in one quick motion, revealing the Watcher dangling from the ladder. He's scrabbling for a better hold - he'd clearly been struggling to take the cover off. "Nice of you to drop in."

"Yes, well," Wesley says, pausing to pull himself - painfully awkwardly - out of the grate. Angel makes no move to help him, but he doesn't move to alert Buffy, either. He just waits, cautious and wary, as Wesley pulls himself to his feet - his suit a dirty, muck-soaked mess - and regains his footing, much worse for the wear than it'd been a few days ago. "You certainly don't make it easy. The maps for the sewer system here are a mess."

Willow had done that deliberately, about a year and a half ago, as a gesture of goodwill when he and Buffy first started...seeing each other. A fifteen-year-old girl, hacking into the city's database to help him conceal his movements - Angel still doesn't know if he should be grateful or extremely disturbed. "What are you doing here?"

"I know you have Faith," the Watcher says, and Angel tenses again, on instinct. Seeming to sense it, Wesley sounds tense as well, when he speaks again. "Just wait a minute - I'm not here to interfere. At least not how you're probably thinking."

"Then why are you here?" Angel asks, eyeing the door to the inside of the mansion. He can hear Buffy and Faith speaking again - arguing, clearly, due to the stressed tones of Buffy's voice, and the angry tones in Faith's. Angel shakes his head. "No offense, but I don't think she's going to respond to you any better than she's responding to us."

"Clearly," Wesley says dryly. He adjusts his suit jacket - a sad gesture, considering how disheveled and beyond repair his clothes are. There's the lingering scent of blood, coming from the inside of his jacket, and Angel realizes for the first time that none of them have had any idea where Wesley's been for the past forty-two hours. His shoulders tense even more. "No. I'm here to warn you - the Council's on their way. You need to get her out of here, now."

"What?" Angel deliberately makes his voice sharp enough to echo, and the voices inside stop abruptly. "What do you mean, the Council's on their way?"

"I mean exactly that," Wesley says stiffly, just as Buffy bursts through the curtain, her face already scrunched in anger. Wesley turns, his own face already set in a mask of superiority, having clearly expected this reaction. Angel replaces the sewer grate quickly, sliding the bolts back in place - the closest thing he has to a lock.

"Wes," Buffy greets, pulling the curtain shut behind her. Before she does, Angel catches a glimpse of Faith pulling at her chains in frustration, Giles standing tensely in front of her. "I'd say it's nice to see you, but I promised my mother recently I'd stop telling white lies. What the hell are you doing here." Her voice is flat and unimpressed.

Wesley's face goes long-suffering. "Must I repeat myself? If you're to make me explain multiple times, you might as well call Mr. Giles out here so I only have to tell you once."

"Feels nice to be invited," comes Giles' voice. He ducks through the curtain in the next moment. "Mr. Wyndam-Pryce. Nice of you to join us."

Wesley nods - just a bare inclination of his head. Giles' appearance has clearly struck a nerve - his shoulders are rigid with tension. "Mr. Giles. Somehow I'd hoped you weren't involved in this."

Buffy's mouth opens, likely for an angry retort, but a soft touch from Giles on her shoulder holds her back. "I did what I thought was best. Your motives, on the other hand, are yet to be revealed."

"You can't take her away," Buffy says stubbornly. "You can't control her. Trying to will only make it worse."

"Do I look like I'm here to kidnap her? Truly?" Wesley exclaims, to everyone's surprise. He throws up his hands in exasperation. "For God's sake, I'm not even armed. No - " he glances at Angel, his face still tight. Tight with...fear, Angel realizes, with a sick lurch. And not of _them_ \- of something else. "As I said, I'm here to _warn_ you. I know what you've been trying to do, and while I don't exactly agree with your...methods, I'm not so arrogant enough to think I would do any better on my own. Certainly not right now, when she barely even knows me." The last sentence is almost wry - another surprise.

Angel catches Buffy's eye. "He says the Council's on their way," he says.

"What?" Giles snaps, his face instantly paling. "You can't be serious."

"I don't like that face," Buffy says warily. "Giles, explain your face."

"I think _Wesley_ should explain, actually," Giles says tightly. "If he means what I think he means - "

"I do," Wesley interrupts, gravely. "A hit squad - four members. I managed to misdirect them, but it won't be long until they figure it out. They very likely already know you're all here." He checks his watch. "It's been nearly forty minutes since I left - you don't have much time." Angel's sense sharpen, as Wesley winces, yanking his arm back down against his side. The scent of blood turns fresh.

"A _'hit squad?'"_ Buffy repeats incredulously. "Watchers have _hit squads?_"

"Dangerous ones," Giles says, as tense as Wesley now. He narrows his eyes. "You told them? Sent in your bloody report, didn't you, as if this was just a - "

"I didn't _have _to tell them," Wesley interrupts again, voice tight with anger - and pain, most likely. The scent of blood is getting stronger. "Come on, man, don't be naive. Did you really think they weren't watching every move you made? Especially now, with that botched Cruciamentum, the mess with Gwen Post - and a Slayer like Faith, on her own with no support? Don't tell me you thought that not hearing from them meant they were leaving you _alone?_"

Giles blinks twice. He suddenly looks very old. "She had support," he says, rather weakly.

"Please," Wesley says. "She lives in a _motel._" The scathing, damning words make everyone flinch, Angel included. Wesley breathes in deeply, his shoulders hitching. His face settles back into its neutral, arrogant default. "It's not the same Council you left five years ago, Mr. Giles. With Travers in charge…"

It seems he doesn't need to finish that sentence. "I didn't think they'd go this far," Giles says, taking off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose, "but he's right - I should have."

"Why are you helping us?" Buffy asks, her expression suspicious.

For a split second, Wesley's face changes - and an animal sense, deep in Angel's sternum - much more instinctual than simple smell or sight - wakes up and blares an alarm. "Because I meant the oath I made," Wesley says. Angel's back straightens, his eyes glued to Wesley's face. There's something different, here. Something he can't identify, but still...different. "There aren't many Watchers left who remember that our duty is to protect, as well as guide. And right now, that's what Faith needs - not punishment. And certainly not to be locked up in a cell somewhere, by men who would just as soon kill her to save themselves the trouble of helping her."

Buffy's eyes are wide, her mouth pulled into a flat, grim line. Giles look similarly affected, his knuckles white at his sides. "Angel," he says, and Angel snaps to attention, the eerie sense fading away. "It'll have to be you."

"I know," Angel says, at the same time that Buffy protests: "but where is he supposed to - "

"Don't tell us," Wesley interrupts, "don't tell anyone. Just get her far away from here, and keep her alive. Knock her out if you have to. Therapy can come later." He makes eye contact with Angel, and again, there's the prickly knowledge in Angel's hindbrain, that this is not the same man he'd met five days ago. He can't explain it, but still, somehow...he knows it's true. "Can you do that?"

"Yes," Angel says, knowing that's true, too. Buffy looks stricken, but keeps her mouth shut.

"Thank you," Wesley says. Inside, a muffled 'thump' makes them all tense, but Faith's voice rings out right afterward with a vulgar request. A thin veil over what she's really saying, which is the same thing she's been saying for weeks: _help me._ "Go now."

Angel doesn't wait for the argument; he knows Wesley's right. He goes.

It doesn't occur to him until later to be disturbed at how easily he took orders from a man he'd only just met, but occur to him it does.

And from a _Brit,_ no less. Angel doesn't like this at all.

* * *

II.

There's been something...off, about Wesley, ever since he'd appeared at the Mansion, but Giles had chalked it up to the adrenaline of the situation. He doesn't know the man that well, after all - perhaps his demeanor during the incident with Balthazar had been nerves, or a particular trigger of some kind. He certainly hadn't struck Giles as particularly brave, although his spirit was willing - for the most part. But maybe he'd misjudged.

That theory gains more traction in the days following the ugly confrontation with the Council's hit dogs, during which Wesley seems to be doing his very best to make Quentin Travers' life as difficult as possible. Any trace of that pompous, arrogant Watcher they'd met has completely vanished, leaving in his place a dry, unimpressed man who knows how to twist a conversation towards his own ends with frightening ease. Giles doesn't want to admit that he's impressed, but...well, fine then, he's impressed.

Had it been an act? Perhaps. Playacting to fool the Council into thinking he was easily manipulated - to gain access to this assignment? Or...was he trying to fool _them?_ A tactic, of some kind, to gain their trust? Though how that possibly would make any sense, Giles doesn't know, but he's slowly learning the Watcher's Council is much more far gone than he'd thought (or hoped) it was. Maybe things really have changed that much.

Really, just that Wesley has managed to put off this inevitability as long as he has would be impressive enough. Giles is hardly going to admit that out loud, however.

"So turning this girl over to a vampire," Travers says, the picture of calm disaffection, "seemed to you to be a better idea than surrendering her to us. Even if, as you say, we _were_ to 'torture her into submission' - really, Pryce - it seems to me that giving her up to a _demon_ would inevitably bring her to the same conclusion. Don't you?"

Wesley is clearly as aware as Giles is of how this conversation will end, and as is becoming his usual - seems utterly unimpressed. Sitting at the table in the library, his head propped on one hand, he almost looks bored. "There's nobody I trust more with her well-being than Angel," he says casually, as if that isn't an absurdly confident statement about a vampire who almost destroyed the entire world seven months ago.

Travers doesn't even blink. "If you continue to refuse to give us her location, we'll have no choice but to - "

"Fire me?" Wesley interrupts, letting his hand fall to the table with a dull thud. "God, _finally._ I was starting to think I'd have to put up with your incessant monologuing for the rest of my life."

Giles, who has been navigating this scene so far by keeping his mouth shut, nearly drops his teacup.

"You're relieved of your duties immediately," Travers snaps, his calm bent but unbroken. "That includes all the diplomatic and financial assistance the Council has generously extended to you, including your work visa and your accommodations."

Wesley sighs audibly, pulling at his tie with a grimace. "How will I ever survive without that mold-infested hotel room," he says wryly. He turns to Giles. "Did they give you the same one? Downtown, right above the - "

"Train tracks," Giles finishes, unable to control the smirk that spreads across his face. "I'm afraid so. Didn't sleep a full night through for the entire first month I was here."

"I notice Mr. Travers here has enjoyed the amenities at the Rosewood, on his numerous and unwelcome visits to Sunnydale. I hear they have _excellent_ spa service," Wesley says, his eyes glittering dangerously.

Travers' shoulders straighten into a hard line. Giles can practically hear the sound of a gun cocking as they snap into position. "Your father was right about you," he says, deceptively light-voiced. "You are too weak to be a Watcher."

The air nearly freezes with the drop on Wesley's face. "Well," he says, after a taut beat of silence, "that says a bit more about you than me, doesn't it? After all, you were the one who overruled him, when I was put up for this position in the first place."

"A mistake," Travers says crisply. Giles has never seen him this angry before; he's practically vibrating.

"Clearly," Wesley says. He curls his fingers slowly over the edge of the table, his knuckles going white. "Let me tell you something, Quentin, while I have your undivided attention - a dubious privilege I'm not likely to receive again - the reason that we've lost every Slayer we've managed to find in the past fifty years is not because of weak Watchers or rebellious teenagers. Your Council's a mess - ambitious, greedy men who are more likely to invite a demon in for tea than to vanquish it - and it's all built on centuries of rot. Rot and corruption and greed, Quentin. That's what the Council is - just like every other institution that keeps men like you in power."

"Are you quite finished?" Travers says, his voice distant, disdainful - but his face is flushed a dull, angry red.

"Quite," Wesley says crisply. He shakes his head, glancing over at Giles briefly. "Compassion is not a weakness, Quentin. My father will go to his grave not understanding that. And so will you."

The fraught silence stretches out into an unbearable length. Giles presses his shoulders back against the bookcase, watching the two men glare at each other. Outside the library, the sounds of normal life push on - children slamming lockers, bells ringing, music playing. Giles is struck again, for what seems like the millionth time, how surreal it is that the world doesn't simply stop and wait in these world-changing moments of danger.

"We will find Faith Lehane, and we will bring her to justice," Travers promises, quiet and menacing. "If either of you interfere again, we will consider you accessories to her crimes."

"Crimes?" Giles exclaims, offended into speech. Travers and Wesley both snap their eyes to him, incredulous. "She's a girl. Just a seventeen-year-old girl, for God's sake, let's not forget what exactly we're discussing, here - "

"She murdered a man in cold blood," Travers says.

"It was an accident," Giles protests, but Wesley interrupts by standing abruptly, his chair screeching back loudly against the tile.

"If you send another Watcher," he says suddenly, "or attempt to take Faith into custody, I will ensure that she and Angel will disappear so thoroughly that not even God can find them."

"Really, this is getting ridiculous," Travers says. "Don't embarrass yourself, Wesley."

"I assure you, I am quite talented at embarrassing myself," Wesley replies, his head tilting to the side, almost mockingly. "This is not what that feels like."

Travers is quiet for another beat, seeming to reassess. "The Council's resources - "

"Don't cover other dimensions," Wesley says. "Isn't that irritating? Being interrupted? I know I hate it." Travers shoots him a glare so venomous Giles is surprised Wesley doesn't spontaneously combust. "There are plenty to choose from, and not all of them are full of fire and brimstone. Quite a few that are even pleasant, I'd daresay. Would you believe how easy it is to get your hands on a portal mathematician in Southern California? They actually teach classes on it at UCLA, believe it or not."

Travers just scoffs, shaking his head. His elbows are practically inverted, his arms are so straight, tightly clasped behind his back.

"You will take your attack dogs, and you will leave this town," Wesley says calmly. "Feel free to surveil all you want, but you will not interfere with these young women's lives again."

"You sad, arrogant man," Travers says. "Or you'll do what, exactly? Hide them away in a hell dimension?"

"As I said," Wesley says, folding his arms calmly. The barest wince at the movement betrays his still healing ribcage - a mysterious stab wound that he refused to divulge the details of. "Compassion is not weakness."

Travers eyes them both for a long, tense moment. Then he simply turns and walks right out of the library, his dress shoes clicking ominously on the tile floor.

The moment the doors swing shut behind him, it's as if the atmosphere itself deflates. As does Wesley, who collapses back into his chair with a pained grimace.

"Well then," Giles says, going immediately for the pain pills he keeps behind the counter. "Not surprised you tore a few stitches with that one."

"More than a few," Wesley mutters, lifting his collar of his shirt to inspect the damage. "Damn. That's another trip to Urgent Care. Thank you," he says, accepting the medicine gratefully. He swallows them dry. "Sorry," he says after a moment, looking almost sheepish. "I wouldn't really send them to a hell dimension, you know."

"Well, as threats go, it was rather creative," Giles says, bemused. He narrows his eyes at the other man, readjusting his opinion once again. "But you could actually do it, if you wanted to. Couldn't you?"

Wesley shrugs, glancing away. "Have you heard from them yet this morning?"

"Buffy did. They've moved again - another undisclosed location. But they're both safe. And wonder of all wonders - Faith is actually cooperating."

Wesley smiles a little. "She's smart. She knows how to take care of herself - who to trust."

"And Angel is one of those people?" Giles asks archly. He doesn't wait for an answer. "I knew your last name sounded familiar. You're Roger Pryce's son - the prodigy."

"Prodigy?" Wesley sputters. "Hardly. Is that what they were saying about me?"

"In certain circles," Giles says consideringly. Roger Pryce had been a legend in his day, but when Giles was young, just beginning his training, he was already considered obsolete. His son, however - who never seemed to be mentioned by name, in those conversations - was flying through the Watcher curriculum, by all accounts. Just rumors, however - Giles hadn't paid much attention at the time. And he hadn't recognized the name, when Wesley had first arrived in Sunnydale. Looking at him now, he can see the resemblance - and the tension, tight around Wesley's eyes, at the current topic. He sets it aside. "They won't just give up. They've already lost control of Buffy, but she's never given them an excuse. But with Faith…"

"I know," Wesley says grimly. He glances over at the swinging doors, as if expecting Travers to stride back in any minute. "We'll need leverage, and quickly. They won't leave Faith alone without incentive to do so."

"This won't help," Giles says needlessly.

"Well, if she thinks the Council's opinion of her matters, then we'll have to convince her otherwise, won't we?" Wesley says crisply. "Perhaps a few carefully chosen history lessons? I'm sure you know what I mean."

"That's - " Giles cuts off the protest before it even forms. Old habits, and all that. "Yes, well. You might be onto something there."

Wesley grimaces again, sliding one palm beneath his jacket to press against his bandage. "How long has it been?" he asks, almost more to himself than to Giles. "Two weeks? If you count the time it took me to travel here?" He smiles, a sardonic twist of his mouth. "I do believe I've just broken a record."

"Don't get too ahead of yourself," Giles says dryly, "you're forgetting that poor chap who got himself killed on the second day."

"Ah, Bradford Wilmley III? Well, that hardly counts," Wesley says, but his smile's turned into a small grin. "He never even met his Slayer in person."

Giles shakes his head. As much of a rollercoaster that the last week has been, he can't deny that this has been the most entertaining part. It's been a long, long time since he saw Quentin Travers bested in an argument. And despite his better judgment, he finds himself...endeared, by the combination of bitterness and wide-eyed earnestness that Wesley seems to mix together in every conversation.

First impressions are always deceiving, he figures, and reaches out to clasp Wesley's elbow, stopping him from getting up. "Don't bother with the hospital," he says, "I have supplies here. No reason to spend money, now that you're about to run out paychecks."

"Yes, good point," Wesley says, looking a bit dim. "I suppose I'll have to find a nine to five, now. How...tedious."

Giles pauses at the desk, pulling out the well-used first aid kit. "So you plan to stay, then?"

"As long as I'm useful." Wesley arches an eyebrow.

"Something tells me," Giles says keenly, watching him through narrow eyes, "that you'll make sure that you are."

Wesley shrugs, deliberately casual. Giles is reminded, eerily, of Travers. "We'll get along fine."

"Whatever you say," Giles mutters.

* * *

III.

Vegas is hot.

Faith's an East Coast girl, born and raised in muggy, wet summers and biting cold winters. SoCal was a welcome adjustment, as far as the rays and the babes went, but this - this is unbearable.

Angel doesn't have much patience for her bitching, probably because he's even more annoyed than she is with the unrelenting heat. But then again, she can't deny that it's a good place to hide. Who would ever think to look for a vampire in the middle of a desert?

At least their hotel has air conditioning. It's the small shit. "I've been behaving myself," Faith says, crossing her arms across her chest. Then she remembers Diana, gently tapping her elbows - a ghostly touch she can almost feel physically. _You look defensive. Don't give too much away, Faith. _She uncrosses her arms. "No rasslin', rompin', or ramblin'. Haven't even gone Slaying since we left Cali. Squeaky clean, that's me."

"That's good to hear," the Watcher says. Whatever his name is. Something with a 'W'. "It's the 'rassling' that gets you in trouble. Or so I'm told."

Faith blinks. Across the room, Angel snorts - a sound so surprising it makes all three of them startle.

"Uh," he says, when all eyes turn to him. "We've been laying low," he says, trailing off lamely. Isolated from Buffy, Faith's noticed that Angel is a bit looser with his words - not to mention his body language - as if he doesn't have to watch himself as closely. It's kind of refreshing, in a really, really sad way. "The cell phone and laptop have really helped, Wesley. Thanks for that."

"My pleasure," says Wesley - she knew it started with a 'W.' Wesley the Watcher - fitting. "Some time away was refreshing, I imagine."

Faith scoffs, before she can help herself. At Angel's sharp look, her eyes dart to the ceiling, a heavy weight on her chest.

"Perhaps you could give us a moment," Wesley says, efficiently breaking the tense silence. "Angel?"

"Are you…" Angel trails off, clearly unsure.

"He's gonna hear everything we say anyway," Faith says, rolling her eyes. She pulls on one of her earlobes. "Super hearing. Remember?"

"Regardless," Wesley says. He turns to Angel. "I hope I've earned enough of your trust by now. Ten minutes is all I ask."

Angel visibly struggles for words, before rising to his feet. He purposefully makes eye contact with Faith, who just as purposefully allows him to. They've got kind of a thing going here - her and Angel. It's as nice as it ever gets, when it's with someone else's boyfriend. "I'll just be in the lobby."

"Okay," Faith says, and tries not to call him back, as he slinks out of the room. The sound of the door shutting behind him is almost ominous.

Wesley waits a few moments before he speaks, clearly giving her time to gather herself. Faith fucking hates that she's grateful.

"You look better," he says after a moment. As she watches, he takes Angel's vacated chair, one hand pressed to his ribcage. Faith watches him favor the injury, her mind automatically laying out a strategic roadmap - right hook, undercut, hit him on his weak side, get him on the ground. Forty seconds tops and she's out of the door. She flinches as the impact of the thought hits, tearing her eyes away and gluing them back to the ceiling. "Faith."

"Heard you got stabbed," Faith blurted, then winces again. She'd practiced this - her apology/thank you speech. Angel had sat right there, right where Wesley's now sitting, and roleplayed it with her a dozen times. Of course she fucked it up right out of the gate. "Sorry. I mean - that sucks. Also thanks."

She dares a quick look, and to her surprise - he's smiling. "As tempted as I am to take credit, I didn't actually get stabbed defending you," he says.

"But you did get stabbed," Faith says. "What - did you get mugged?"

"Something like that," Wesley says. He pulls his palm away. "It's better now. A few more weeks and I'll be good as new."

Faith chews on her lip, studying him. He looks nothing like Diana. For one - he's a dude, which Faith is sort of turned off by on principle. And secondly...Diana was nice. Really nice. The genuine kind of niceness that made people want to talk to her, tell her their secrets. Faith hadn't stood a chance, in the face of all that kindness. But Wesley's not nice. Faith can tell that just by looking at him.

One of the first things you learn, in foster care, is that politeness and niceness are two different things. Wesley's real good at the first - all Watchers are. But the second part - the part people like Buffy and Angel have...he ain't got it. She knew that from the very first moment. Looking at him now - she's only more sure.

"You here to take me back?" she asks flatly.

Wesley's mouth quirks upward. "No," he says, reaching into his little man purse, leaning against the side of the couch. "I came to bring you a book."

"A book," Faith says, and blinks as Wesley tosses it at her. She catches it on instinct. "Wow. You really are a Watcher."

"Cable TV can only do so much for a bored teenage girl," Wesley says. "I thought you could use some stimulation that doesn't come from physical violence. For once."

Faith blinks at him, her fingers curling around the edges of the cover. "That was almost dirty," she says, turning her attention to the cover. "Oh, come on - a Watcher diary? You've gotta be shitting me."

"Look closer," Wesley says simply. Curious despite herself, Faith does. On the front cover, etched in gold lettering, a title: _Clara Lee Bauman, 1902 - 1919._ "That wasn't written by a Watcher."

Faith flips the cover open. "A...Slayer?"

"One of the longest-living ones, of the last century," Wesley says, nodding. "She was Canadian - from a very small, rural town in northern Alberta. Not one of the Council's potentials - they didn't track her down until she was already in her twenties. And she lived to be almost forty years old."

Faith finds herself unable to come up with anything to say. Her fingers are almost tingling, flipping through the thin pages. She's never spared any thought to other Slayers before - other than B, obviously - but now that she's holding one right here in her hands, she finds that...surprisingly, she wants to know.

"Her journals were collected and preserved by her husband," Wesley says - another surprise. A Slayer with a husband? "Not one of the more popular journals, on the Watcher curriculum. For obvious reasons, that you'll discover yourself, if you read it."

"Not a team player, huh?" Faith shakes her head. "You think you can get through to me this way? Empathizing through reading?" She rolls her eyes. "This isn't an episode of Degrassi, Wes."

Wesley visibly falters, at the nickname that falls off her lips unthinkingly. Faith bites the inside of her cheek, unsure of how she feels about it.

"I doubt very much that you'll empathize with Clara at all," Wesley says, slower - less confident. She'd got to him, for some reason, she realizes. By calling him 'Wes.' "She was Called during a tumultuous point in the Council's history. Numerous factions were struggling for power, and once she was found, she instantly became a...bargaining piece. Clara herself was - quite traditional, especially by...your standards."

Faith snorts.

"That wasn't an insult," Wesley says dryly. "At least - not an intentional one. She was very cautious, mostly because she had a family - a husband and two children. She took over her father's farm when she was eighteen and had very little interest in her duties as the Slayer. The Council did not take that well, as you can imagine."

"Huh," Faith says quietly, looking back down at the book. She opens to a random page, skimming the text. Names jump out at her - _William. Maryanne. Harriet._

"Many Watchers were sent," Wesley says. "A few even at the same time, due to the unrest in London. None of them managed to isolate her from her family. It got to the point where they decided to...take matters into their own hands."

"You're saying they killed her," Faith says flatly. She lets the book fall to her lap.

"Yes," Wesley says. Faith's breath leaves her lungs in a shocked, sudden exhale. "I'm not threatening you, Faith."

"Sure sounds like it," Faith says agitatedly, rising to her feet and moving over to the window. The book falls to the floor with a muffled thunk.

"Well, I'm not," Wesley says. He stays seated. "They've made an offer. I'm here to explain it to you - that's all."

Faith crosses her arms, leaning her forehead against the window. The heat from the outside sun makes her skin start to sweat instantly, but she keeps it pressed there, staring out onto the dry parking lot. "An offer, huh. And you're here to sell me on it?"

"Not because I think it's a good idea," Wesley says, "but because I think it's your best option. Aside from...well, jail," he says bluntly. Faith shivers. "They want you to go undercover with the Mayor's office. Return to Sunnydale and offer your services as a...henchman, I suppose is the best way to put it." Faith's fingers clench at her elbows. "If you do this, they will allow Giles to be reinstated as both Buffy's Watcher and yours. I will act as a secondary point of contact. You're to gather as much information as you can, and thwart his efforts whenever it's safe for you to do so without blowing your cover. The idea is," Wesley pauses, swallowing thickly, "you'll be earning their trust back."

"Fuck that," Faith says.

"Indeed," Wesley replies. "But as I said, it's your best option."

"No!" Faith whirls around. "Why can't I just stay here? Or - I dunno, move somewhere? Somewhere they can't find me?"

Wesley, moving slowly, picks up the book, holding it aloft in the air between them. "That's why I want you to read this book," he says gravely. "That's what Clara did, Faith. She ran. And they found her anyway, in 1919." Wesley keeps holding the book out, even as Faith glares at him, refusing to take it from him. "What do you think they're capable of now? In the age of computers, sniper rifles - surveillance cameras?"

To her own horror, Faith finds herself about to cry. "I can't," she says, through a choked throat. "I - I can't do that. I can't - "

"It's not fair, my dear, I know," Wesley says, rising to his feet. He's still holding the book up. "But this is the best I can do for you. Please believe me when I say that you deserve better. Don't ever think for a single _second_ that this is fair, or just, or right."

Faith fights with herself for a long moment, then finally snatches the book out of his hand, if only to put his arm out of its misery. She presses one hand to her mouth, trying to contain herself. She doesn't want to cry in front of him - doesn't want to cry in front of anybody. She hasn't cried since Diana died - that terrible, unbearable night when all her tears dried up inside her head, turning her blood into saltwater, her heart into a lump of cold rock.

No wonder the universe made her a Slayer. How could she be anything else? She's only fit for this.

Wesley takes a deep breath. "Listen. I know you have no reason to trust me. But that's what I'm asking of you anyway." Faith narrows her gaze on his face - lean, shadowed in the dim light from the lamps, a few days' worth of stubble making him look too grubby for his nice, pressed suit. "I won't lie to you about anything. That's a promise I can make. Not for any reason at all - even to spare your feelings."

"So you'll tell me the truth if I ask if I look fat in these pants?" Faith jokes lamely. There's a real question in her head, though, that came to mind right away. She doesn't even want to think about it, but it's there nonetheless.

"Yes, and no, you don't," Wesley says dryly. He joins her at the window, tentatively. "Ask me again how I got stabbed."

"How'd you get stabbed?" Faith replies obediently, swiping the back of her hand across her eyes. Her skin comes away wet.

"My best friend sent me to kill a demon sorcerer disguised as an old man," Wesley says.

Faith stares at him.

"Needless to say, I lost," Wesley says. He turns, jostling Faith's arm almost playfully. "Go on. Try your own question. Ask me anything."

"Who's your best friend?" Faith blurts, the first thing that comes to mind.

"A man who doesn't exist yet," Wesley says. Faith feels her face crease in confusion, her grip on the book tightening. "But that's not really what you want to ask. Is it?"

"Who are you?" Faith asks instead. "You're - you're not the same guy we met last month. You're - what the fuck are you?"

"I am the same guy," Wesley says, "just a little more removed from the current moment, that's all. My name is Wesley, but most people call me Wes." He smiles at her strangely - smiles like he knows her. His gaze is sharp, but not mean. He's not a nice man, clearly, but still - Faith feels oddly comforted by his presence. Like she's standing with her back against a solid wall. "And yes. I know you're a good person, and I know you can be saved. I know it because I've seen it, Faith."

Faith's mouth opens and closes a few times, without any sound. "I didn't...ask a question."

"You didn't have to," Wesley says kindly. He reaches out and carefully, very carefully, touches her arm. Just a little point of contact - barely even a finger - and Faith's entire body starts to tremble. She's been touched in so many ways, by so many different people - but never like this.

"I don't want a Watcher," Faith warns him, her voice betraying her. "I'm not good with Watchers. Especially not...psychic ones, or whatever the fuck you are."

"Well, good thing they fired me then," Wesley says.

"They fired you? Because - what, you warned us? About the goons?"

"Yes, because I warned you about the goons," Wesley says, sounding amused. "Our little undercover setup is strictly on a 'volunteer' basis." He rolls his eyes. "You'll learn this very quickly, Faith - the Council has a way of telling you what to do in a way that makes it seem like it was all _our_ idea on paper."

"And they'll leave B alone?" Faith asks, pressing her forehead back to the window briefly. Just long enough to feel the heat. "If I do this - they'll let her and Giles be, and I'm off the hook - just like that?"

"I cannot imagine this will be the last hook for you," Wesley says darkly, "but yes, Buffy will be fine. As will her friends." Wesley arches an eyebrow. "Also, I'm not psychic."

"Just crazy then," Faith shoots back.

"Crazy's subjective," Wesley replies. He shrugs. "The Mayor will need to be dealt with either way, Faith. Think of it this way - at least like this, you'll get to be part of it."

Faith feels her stomach quivering at the thought. "I'm not so sure you want to load me up and shoot me at a guy like that, Wes. _I'm_ not sure I can handle it."

"I know you can handle it," Wesley replies. "You're capable of much more than you feel, right now. It's always overwhelming in the moment - it always feels like too much to take. But you _can _take it, Faith. Nothing is as terrible as it is in the moment, and the moment doesn't last forever. The pain becomes part of you, but it's not all of you. Remember that. It's never going to be as bad as it is right now."

Faith turns her face away, biting down on her lip viciously, until she tastes blood. Clara's journal is pressing sharp corners into her stomach, another sharp edge of discomfort.

"Angel's been listening to this the whole time, you know," Faith says, after a frozen moment of silence. "Whatever is going on with you - wherever you came from - he knows now, too."

"Oh, I know he's been listening," Wesley says, amused again. "Because it's been much longer than ten minutes." He reaches out and quickly, too quick for her to react, taps her on the nose. She wheels back in surprise, and he laughs. "You can call me crazy all you like. Doesn't mean I'm wrong."

Footsteps, from outside the hotel room door, announce Angel's incoming presence. He's not exactly being subtle - but Faith, for some reason, has the urge to run over and lock the door. Keep listening to him talk in that odd, affecting voice, bouncing back and forth between humor and intensity. "Doesn't mean you're right, either."

The door swings open, just as Wesley replies, Angel looming his way into the room, his face pulled tight in suspicion. "Point taken," Wesley says, turning to look. His face pulls into a sardonic, knowing grin. "Ready then, are you? Well, this should be fun."


End file.
